


Bait and Tackle Bros

by JaiMaree



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pie, Pre-Avengers (2012), Quote: Saving people hunting things (Supernatural), SHIELD Husbands, Terrible appropriation of Japanese mythology, ugly hat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaiMaree/pseuds/JaiMaree
Summary: Clint straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He’s going to find his husband, dead or alive. And then someone is going to pay.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Dean Winchester, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	Bait and Tackle Bros

**Author's Note:**

> My first proper fic, and first time writing in both of these worlds! But I had a mental image of Dean and Clint arguing over pie and then this happened...

“What? _No_. Pizza totally counts. I mean, they call it a pizza _pie_.” Clint stabs his fork into the last of the blueberry house special, making sure to smush the crust into the remaining glob of whipped cream before stuffing it in his mouth.

“Pizza does _not_ count. It has to be pie, proper pie,” Dennis says, pretty face scowling petulantly across the table they’re sharing in the crowded diner. If his name is actually Dennis, Clint will eat his hat. Cap. His awful ‘Nick’s Bait & Tackle’ cap, a faded lime green monstrosity that Clint is totally going to gift to Fury when this clusterfuck of a mission is over and Phil is safe and sound. _Dennis_ has the tough jaded look of an operative, but not the undercover sort like Clint. _Dennis_ is not as subtle as he thinks he is. He’s probably a merc, or maybe someone from one of the more boots-on-the-ground alphabet agencies.

“Fine,” Clint huffs out after a moment. “Apple, then.” Who is he kidding, he _hates_ apple pie. Too many bad memories of childhood, of his father throwing his plate across the kitchen to splatter against the wall as his mom cowers in a corner. But he knows what he looks like, all right? He’s your textbook All-American Midwestern Blond, with the easy smile and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He just _screams_ wholesome upbringing and apple pie, even if that’s pretty much as far from the truth as you can possibly get. Clint can play a part if he needs to.

He pushes his empty plate away. The diner is a bust; too many outsiders cluttering it up, here for spring fishing with their awful multi-pocketed vests and sunhats. What he needs is someplace low-key, where he can chat to the locals and get the information he needs. He wonders, not for the first time, if Dennis is in town for the same thing as he is—to track the trail of disappearances that leads right here to this mountain backwater, and the unidentified anomaly causing them. The _anomaly_ that somehow, along the way, managed to snatch Coulson while he was out on a donut-and-coffee run three towns back. No mean feat; Phil may have a good ten years on Clint, but he can still kick his ass on the sparring mat _and_ outlast him in the bedroom.

Clint flattens the palm of his hand across his worn Coors Lite t-shirt—godawful beer but great camouflage—and feels for the reassuring outline of the wedding ring he wears on a chain around his neck. He catches Dennis’ eyes on him and coughs, pressing in his hand and turning the action into a sort of chest pat thing. Time to go; he’s been in here too long doing nothing useful. Maybe he’ll try the bait stores next, they’re always good for gossip at this time of year. And then he’ll hit up the local police. He nods at Dennis as he gets to his feet.

“Good luck with the fish,” Clint says. “Hope you catch what you’re after.”

Dennis puts down his coffee cup, green-gray eyes narrowing despite the friendly smile. “You too, Clive. You too.”

Clint steps out into the midday sunshine, adjusting the lime green monstrosity so it shades his face properly. He’s already pushing thoughts of Dennis aside to focus on the case. They’d been working on this for a month before Coulson got taken, and all signs so far point to a collector of some sort—the trail has been made up of disappearances, not bodies, and Clint clings to the sliver of hope like Leo hung onto that stupid door in Titanic. Except Leo died, and Clint is drowning too, the fear of losing Phil choking up his lungs and twisting his insides out of shape. He makes an effort to unclench his fists and beams at the woman walking by with a dog. By her face, it must be more grimace than smile, and Clint widens his eyes and does his best to project _innocent bystander_ all over the main street of Hilltown, Nowhere.

He straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He’s going to find his husband, dead or alive. And then _someone_ is going to pay.

***

Dean is ten minutes into his usual _thing_ , all dashing smiles and earnest convincing eyes for the very pregnant deputy manning the desk in the local police station, when the door opens and Clive walks through. The late afternoon sun slants in with him, backlighting broad shoulders and turning blond hair into a golden halo. The worn jeans and scruffy t-shirt are gone; instead, the man is wearing a dark suit that fits a lot better than Dean’s does.

Clive’s gaze slides over Dean, noting his presence but not showing outward surprise. He’s _good_ , Dean will give him that at least. He nods at the deputy, brief and efficient. The gosh-shucks country boy from the diner is gone, replaced somehow by a keen-eyed government man. He hands the deputy his ID. “Agent Burton, FBI.”

The deputy flaps her hand at Dean. “You two here together?”

Clive frowns as Dean smirks. “No,” Dean tells her. “Must have been a mix up.” He holds out his hand for Clive to shake. “Agent Emerson. Also FBI.” He starts to pull his ID out, but Clive waves it away. It’s one of Dean’s favorite fakes; he has great memories of the time they all went in, him and Sam and Castiel, as Agents Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, and no one caught on. It had been hilarious. The town diner had great pie, too, peach and cinnamon if he remembers correctly—he shared a whole one with Castiel. Damn he misses Cas, wishes he was here instead of off doing angel stuff. Worry for Sam flares up and he pushes it down. It isn’t helpful, not now. Not when he has to figure out what took his brother.

“Head office must have screwed up,” Clive says, sighing at the desk-bound deputy. He _could_ be FBI, is the thing. He looks the part. But Dean would stake his dinner on Clive’s ID being a fake as well. Clive is still talking. “I hate it when they do that. Waste of good tax-payer resources. Well, I’m here now. Do you want to fill me in?” He blinks thick eyelashes and blue eyes at the deputy, smiling bashfully. It’s well done, just enough to soften his tough-man act without breaking character.

She smiles back, thoroughly charmed. “I was just going to get Agent Emerson here settled in our conference room and find him the file. Why don’t you two head on in? It’s the second door to the right, you can’t miss it.”

The two of them find the place. Clive closes the door behind him. “So. _Agent Emerson_ , is it? What, uh, department of the FBI are you in?”

“Game and Fishing,” says Dean, without missing a beat.

Clive grins, sharp and toothy, dropping all pretenses. “Is that so?” he drawls. He’s a hawk now, circling, looking for a weak spot. “Well, now, how about that. I’ve also been following the spring fishing trail. Since Elwood.”

 _Shit_. Elwood? That’s _way_ down the river, almost where it spills into the bay. If this thing he and Sammy are chasing started that far away, who knows how many people it’s snatched or eaten. Dean sets the dick-measuring aside—he has no _time_ for that bullshit—and strides over to the large map of the region that takes up most of the far wall. He taps a finger at Elwood, traces on up the river until he gets to the town before this one, and he taps his finger again. “I didn’t pick up the case until Collinsville. How many disappearances total?”

“This what we’re doing? Playing at teammates?” Clive is watching him, blue eyes cool and assessing.

Dean shrugs. “I don’t see why not. For now, anyway. You have more data than me, I can use that. But—and you’ll have to trust me on this—I have a lot more experience than you in this sort of operation.” If it will help him find Sammy, he’ll play ball with anyone. He’s worked with vampires and werewolves; he’s worked with the King of Hell himself. He can work with one pretty-boy maybe-shady Fed.

“You do, do you?” Clive looks like he’s weighing things up in his mind. He nods once, firm and decided. “Okay.”

Deputy Lane knocks, and then comes in, bringing a slim file with her. She sets it down, one hand on her back to support her swollen belly. “This is what we have on the girl. Sarah Adams. She’s a senior, goes to the high school one town over. Here, we only have elementary.” She lays a palm flat on the folder, reverently, almost like a blessing. “We all knew Sarah. Her folks are long-time residents, on both sides of the family. She worked the rental canoe place down on Rapids Road in summer, and weekends at her dad’s hardware store the rest of the year. Good girl, no trouble at all.”

Dean’s closest, so he grabs the folder first, flipping it open. He runs a practiced eye over the paperwork. “Last seen at the canoe shop. Had the closing shift, all by herself. Store was closed all right next day, locked up tight. But no sign of Sarah, and she never made it home.” He looks up at Lane. “This the only disappearance?”

She nods. “Yeah. We had an older couple go missing three years ago, out-of-towners they were, here for the fishing. But nothing since then. This is usually a quiet part of the world, mostly just a few drunks and speeding tickets issued.” Through the open door, Dean can hear a phone ring. The deputy jerks her head in the direction of the insistent shrilling. “I’ll be out there if you have any questions,” she says, rushing off as fast as she can waddle.

“So only one case,” Clive says. He walks over to the map. His finger goes to the first of the river towns, all the way at the bottom of the map. “Before Sarah we have two here, four in this town, then one, two, one, and a whopping great five disappearances. Then it all calms down a bit, back to one, one, and two in Collinsville.”

“That wasn’t in the news!” Dean says, then mentally kicks himself. He’s as good as confessed he has no access to whatever official sources Clive is using. “I mean, how is the news not all over this yet?”

Clive grins his shark’s smile again. “It’s okay, I know you’re not a Fed. I won’t out you, not if you make yourself useful.”

“Well, _you’re_ not a Fed either.” It’s stupid and childish, but the clock is ticking, and Dean wants his brother _back_.

But Clive just laughs. “Yeah, no shit.” He sobers. “The news hasn’t picked it up because there’s no pattern. Ages, body types, ethnicity… Some were locals, some tourists, and others were just trade people passing through—there’s a trucker, a Fedex driver. A guy delivering flowers two towns over. It’s all over the damn place. There are no common factors at all.”

Dean makes a decision; one he hopes not to regret. “Three. Uh, there were three in Collinsville. One was my brother.”

Clive eyes him, thoughtful. “You didn’t report it.” It’s not a question, but Dean shakes his head anyway in confirmation. Clive traces the river back three towns. “In that case…full disclosure? Here, I said one. But it was really two disappearances. My partner.”

“So it’s personal? For both of us?”

“Yeah.” Clive’s gone back to staring at the map as though it will serve up the creature that’s stolen all these lives away. Not that he knows it’s a creature, obviously. “He, um. My partner. He went out for donuts and coffee, just walked out of the motel and down along the river road. Never returned. No sign of him anywhere.”

Something sparks in Dean’s mind. “Wait. The river? Do you have files on all the others?”

“In here.” Clive taps his forehead and squints in concentration. Dean tries not to roll his own eyes. Seriously? They’re doing the human computer thing, now? He wonders if Clive is actually human. Maybe he’s a witch or something. But then Clive’s eyes widen. “The cases that had witnesses placed all the victims near the river before they disappeared. So…”

“…The _river_ is the common factor.” Dean hardly dares to breath. This is the first tangible clue he’s been handed since Sam went missing. _Shit, shit, shit_. He knows what this is now. “It’s following the river, gathering along the way.”

“ _It_?” Clive’s blue gaze could cut through steel right now. “ _Gathering_?”

But Dean can’t stand here beating around the bush. He needs Clive on his side _now_ , he can’t do this alone. That means he’ll need to tell Clive the truth. He straightens his shoulders, pulls himself up to his full height, tried to look imposing. “Will you trust me? Because I know what it is, this thing that’s taken our people. And I know what it’s doing.” He stares Clive straight in the eyes. “Agent Burton, do you believe in the supernatural?”

***

There’s something called a kappa, apparently. It’s some sort of Japanese river demon? Clint isn’t really sure, the whole thing sounds nuts to him, but he’s seen enough weirdness working for SHIELD not to discredit the story out of hand. Dean—not Dennis, _ha!_ He called that one right from the start—comes from a long line of monster hunters, blah, blah, blah. Clint’s cynical enough to know that some of the worst monsters are human, but if this kappa thing is real and has taken Phil, it can count its days as numbered. With extreme prejudice.

Dean says kappas are mostly just tricksters, but sometimes they’ll feed on human blood like some kind of water vampire. Like when they’re breeding. Dean thinks this one is rounding up take-out for a mate, or perhaps for a nestful of younglings. Stocking the pantry, so to speak.

Anyway, Clint is willing to give Dean the benefit of the doubt right now because the guy has a sweet ride. The trunk of his black ’67 Impala holds more weapons than Clint’s entire apartment, and that’s really saying something. Phil would love this car. Natasha would marry it.

Clint tosses his bow and quiver on the back seat— _“What are you, Robin Hood?”_ —and they tear on up the river road, heading for the source of it, some twelve miles ahead. That’s where Dean says the nest will be, probably in a swamp or someplace wet and nasty. He opens Dean’s notebook as they rattle along the bumpy road, swerving potholes. He skims through, pausing briefly to be part disgusted and part fascinated—who knew werewolves did _that_? But he doesn’t have time for werewolves. He keeps going until he finds the kappa page, reads out loud.

“It says we can immobilize it by bowing to it. They like politeness. And then they have this water place on their heads, like a cavity—if the water tips out, they can’t move. Oh, and they like cucumbers, when they’re not on a human blood rampage.”

“We don’t have any cucumbers,” says Dean. “I vote we just gank it. Nothing like a good sharp knife to take a creature’s head off.” He grins at Clint, all trace of fake FBI agent gone. He’s a predator, and so is Clint, and the pull of the hunt is growing in Clint’s blood, boiling and rising, almost at that tipping point where, Clint knows from experience, he’ll go all cold and precise and do what needs to be done. In this case, that means save Coulson, or avenge him if he can’t. Either way, the kappa thing is going down.

The river dwindles, narrows, turns smaller and smaller. When there’s almost nothing left of it, they spot a parking lot and a sign: Willow’s Marsh. True to Dean’s prediction, there’s a swamp. Marsh. Whatever. They park and weapon up. Clint has enough guns and knives of his own, plus his bow; he doesn’t need to borrow. But he’s pretty impressed anyway at the sweet baby machete that Dean hefts from hand to hand. Muscles ripple smoothly in the hunter’s arms, and if Clint had been much younger and had never met Phil, he’d have been all over that. Now, the sight just makes him miss his husband. What? Beneath those suave suits, Coulson is a sight to behold. And he’s getting him back, he has to.

Dean catches him watching the knife. “This little darling got me through Purgatory. And that’s not a metaphor. Mean shithole of a place, try to avoid it if you can.”

“Sure.” Clint has his own Purgatory. It’s called Budapest, and they never talk about it if they can help it, him and Nat and Phil. They start into the swamp—sorry, _marsh_ —Dean looking for god knows what and Clint just looking for anything weird at all.

The marsh is huge, and Clint’s already starting to despair when Dean says, “Let’s split up.”

Splitting up always goes wrong for Scooby Doo, but Clint’s not a cartoon dog, though how cool would that be? He’s a secret agent and a former criminal and mercenary, and splitting up sounds like the only way to go. “If one of us gets caught, we can do bait and tackle,” he says, thinking of the lime green cap currently sitting in his motel room and getting its monstrosity germs all over the bland greige bedspread. “You know, whoever gets made keeps the kappa busy while the other one sneaks up and ends it.”

“Hell, why not? You can be bait, Robin Hood. I’ll be tackle.”

“Nuh-huh,” Clint answers, all mature-like. He waggles his bow. “I’m better from a distance. You can be the up-and-close man.”

“Whatever. Let’s just go, all right?” Dean tightens his grip on his baby machete and heads left.

Clint takes the right, picking his way around the marsh. It would be pretty here, with the last of the setting sun spilling reds and golds everywhere, and the twittering birds and swamp flowers—sorry, _marsh_ flowers—if it wasn’t for the mosquitos that seem intent on sucking him dry, no kappas needed. Ugh, he needs coffee. And insect repellant. Maybe the _kappa_ is in fact a giant mosquito. Or, like, a swarm of them, working together like itsy bitsy drones. Or maybe…

 _…_ Maybe the kappa is _right in front of him._

Clint screams like a rookie even as he fires off three arrows at once. They hit, making weird squishy noises against green rubbery skin. The kappa doesn’t look hurt as he pulls them out, only mildly inconvenienced, and then Clint is running, splashing through ankle-deep water and mud as the _impossible mythical green thing_ gives chase. Shit, _shit._ It looks nothing like the vaguely ninja-turtle-style sketch in Dean’s notebook—this one is more like an alligator crossed with a frog, but upright and moving on two legs. It’s _big_ , way bigger than the book said it would be. It has huge teeth and claws, and it’s quickly gaining on him. “Bait and tackle, bait and tackle,” he chants under his breath. Damn it, where’s Dean and his Purgatory knife?

Dean comes out of nowhere and then all three are down, scrapping in the mud like a bunch of wannabe wrestlers on amateur night, razor-sharp teeth snapping way too close to Clint’s throat. Clint pulls out his back-up piece—he never shoots a gun if he can use his bow—and empties the whole thing into the kappa’s gut. But the freaky-ass thing doesn’t stop moving, not until Dean fucking chops off its head. Or, in truth, not until Dean hacks and saws away at the thing’s throat, and the head falls off with a disgusting _plop_ , spraying sickly green mucus everywhere.

They lie there a moment in the mud and water, panting. “You good there, Robin Hood?” Dean asks.

Clint rolls over and throws up what’s left of his diner pie.

***

They find the kappa’s nest in a shallow scraped-out cave at the edge of the marsh. They also find the kappa’s very pregnant mate, and she—it? Who knows how kappa genders skew—is _pissed_. She’s got Dean immobilized with some sort of web stuff, he’s thinking neurotoxins, and she looks like she’s one second away from ripping out his throat and feeding on his insides and nice warm human blood.

Then freaking Clive, with his stupid bow and arrow, steps into the cave. _Bait and tackle_ , _bait and tackle_ , Dean is thinking hard at Clive, as if being frozen and unable to speak has somehow gifted him telepathic powers. Clearly, it hasn’t. Clive’s supposed to stick to the plan; if one of them gets caught, the other uses him as a distraction. Instead, Clive calmly sets his weapons down and claps his hands together. The kappa looks up, curiosity all over its strange frog-gator-person face.

Clive babbles something in some foreign language and bows deeply to the kappa. The kappa doesn’t reply, but it bows back—and then freezes. Ha! Take that, monster. Have a taste of your own neurotoxins.

“It’s not neurotoxins,” Clive says. Huh. The stuff must be wearing off, because apparently Dean said that out loud. “See the water on the floor? That was on that weird shallow spot on the kappa’s head. It’s river water, it ties the creature to the river it lives in. The kappa is bound by politeness, so when I bowed, it responded, and spilled the water. It can’t move until I give it water to replenish its, uh, head place. I think?”

At Dean’s look of incredulity, Clive grins. “It was in your little hunter’s handbook. You should actually read that thing.”

Dean shakes out his arms, tests his legs. Yup, he can move again. “That’s Sam’s job,” he says. “He’s the researcher.” And crap, Sammy! Clint must remember his partner at the same time, because they both start out at once, leaving the furious frozen kappa behind. They move deeper into the cave, down a short tunnel. Inside, it opens out and they find them. _All_ of them. Some of the bodies are nothing but husks, sucked completely dry. Others are in some sort of drugged slumber, but alive, heaped in corners like nuts in a squirrel’s pantry. And in the middle of them—

“Sam!”

And then he’s pulling his brother free and slapping him around until he blinks, slow but aware. “Dean?”

They hug, and it’s the best thing ever, and Dean thinks that, just maybe, he might be crying, but hey, who’s going to notice? Not Clive, not when he’s plucking a compact, balding man from one of the human food piles and, oh—there’s tongue. Huh. So _that_ sort of partner. No wonder Clive was frantic.

“Hey, Clive?” Dean calls out. “What was that you said to the kappa?”

“Uh, it’s Clint, actually. Clint Barton. And it was just some random stuff in Japanese. I picked some up on a job once, figured it might help distract it. They’re supposed to be Japanese in origin, right? Though I think these ones must be some local hybrids, because they’re nothing like the sketches in your book.” He pauses, looks at the way Dean has Sam in a death-grip. “This your brother?”

Sam raises a hand. “I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.”

The balding man with Clive—no, _Clint_ —brushes a hand down his shirt, managing somehow to look dapper and put-together despite just having been missing for days and almost being food for a kappa and a bunch of mini kapplets. “ _Winchester?_ ” he asks. “John’s boys? I worked with your father on a job once. Vengeance demon.”

Clint looks fondly at his partner. “Of course you did, sir.”

Balding and dapper shares a private smile with Clint and then holds out a hand. There’s a card in it, miraculously magicked from somewhere on his person. “I’m Agent Coulson, from SHIELD.”

“I _knew_ you weren’t FBI,” crows Dean. “Uh, what’s SHIELD?”

“Oh,” Sam says, “ _SHIELD_. I’ve heard of them. They’re the real deal. They’re like the secret agent’s secret agent. They deal with some weird stuff, too. I’m not surprised Dad worked with them.”

“Contact me, once this is all over,” says Agent Coulson. The guy is sort of stoic and quietly dangerous all at once, and he reminds Dean of Castiel. A sudden pang of want and loss washes through him. Now that Sammy is back, there’s a very obvious angel-shaped hole in Dean’s life.

But Coulson isn’t done yet. “I’d love to have the two of you on board.” He raises a hand at Dean’s open mouth, aborting his protest. “Just as consultants, for cases like this one. There’s good money in it, and we could use some expert help from time to time.”

Clint smiles from his spot at Coulson’s side, all sunshine again now he has his man back. “It _is_ good money. I used to consult, back before I went steady.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Speaking of steady… Boyfriend?”

Clint honest-to-god _blushes_. “Husband.”

“Ah. Well. So, what do we do about them?” Dean waves at the kidnapped civilians and the dead body-husks. “And also the frozen kappa up by the entrance? Or do you want me to…” He draws a finger across his throat.

Clint shifts from one foot to another, clearly uncomfortable. “I mean, it—she?—it’s pregnant. I’d feel bad about just, you know.” He mimics Dean’s finger-throat gesture.

“It’s okay, Clint,” says Coulson, gentle and unflappable. “We’re not killing it. I’m calling in SHIELD clean-up. We’ll get all these people home and neutralize the kappa. Sam, Dean, if the two of you want to stay, you’re welcome. But I’ll understand if you’d like to remain out of the spotlight.” There’s a wry twist to his mouth as he says, “I remember what your father was like.”

“No, we’ll go,” Dean says. He has kappa blood in his hair and mud down his pants, and he just wants this day to be _done_. “Clint, good meeting you. And thanks. For everything. Bait and tackle bros, right?”

Clint tears his besotted gaze away from his husband. His eyes are looking a little shiny, and he swallows hard before speaking. “Yeah, definitely. Bait and tackle bros forever. And thanks. I’d never have—” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Well, you know how it is. Thank you. _Dennis_.”

Dean grins. “Catch you later, Robin Hood.”

As they walk out, past the frozen kappa who is glaring at the ground, Sam hisses, “SHIELD, Dean? Really?”

Dean shrugs. “Good agent, that Clint guy. Honestly, though, _pizza_? Pizza is _not_ pie.”

***

Clint wades through debrief and decontamination. He signs off on his report and drops off the lime green ‘Nick’s Bait & Tackle’ cap at Fury’s office. By the twitch in Maria Hill’s eye, the monstrosity is a hit. He heads home alone, and it’s three more hours until Phil finally makes it in the door after getting the kappa settled in a secure habitat. He looks exhausted. Clint takes his jacket, hangs it over a chair, and draws him in for a kiss. “Missed you,” he breathes against Phil’s lips.

“God, Clint, I missed you too.” Phil sags into Clint’s arms, chasing the comfort he will never allow himself when they’re at work, on the clock. “Ugh. I need a shower. I need food—something awful and greasy like burgers. And then I need you. Just you.”

“You have me. Always.”

Phil smiles, gentle and sweet. “You came for me. I knew you would.”

“ _Always_ ,” Clint repeats, because it’s true. He will go to hell and back, or possibly Purgatory now he knows it’s real, for one Phillip J. Coulson.

Phil’s smile broadens, becomes a laugh. “Our lives are _weird_. Kappas, Clint? _Winchesters?_ ” As if Sam and Dean Winchester are the strangest part of all this. Which, fair enough, perhaps they are.

Clint shrugs. “Eh. Dean’s okay. Kind of obsessed, though.”

“I can understand that. Monster hunting must—”

“No,” Clint interrupts. “Not monsters. Worse.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I’m talking about _pie_.”


End file.
